


Autumn Festivities

by Not_You



Series: Welcome To Greyhame Academy [7]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Holidays, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Thanksgiving, school vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-09-01 07:37:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8615293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: In which the whole gang has to go to its various homes for harvest festivals, weird elven leaf-turning celebrations, and hobbit Thanksgiving.





	1. Chapter 1

Hobbits have a way of turning everything into a party. Boromir is doing his best to mope since he'll be parted from Merry and Pippin for all of next week, but they keep making him laugh. Now they're folding laundry so quickly and so neatly that he can hardly see their tiny hands moving. It's something of a competition, Merry and Pippin against Sam and Frodo, who so far are winning by a substantial margin. Boromir is used to Sam's complete mastery of outdoor work, but he's just as competent here.

“Done!” he calls, raising his hands over his head and laughing as Merry and Pippin curse and Frodo beams.

“And you even put the towels into thirds, like Bilbo insists on,” he says, ruffling Sam's yellow curls. “Good job.”

Sam beams at his sponsor and then scurries off to rescue a batch of cookies from the oven while Merry and Pippin finish their folding and then cram everything into trunks. Apparently almost every hobbit in the world prefers a trunk for travel. Boromir supposes he can see why, since with a set of little wheels on one end and a handle on the other, it's one of the easiest ways for a hobbit to carry a lot. Boromir has already packed his and Faramir's suitcases, and is now relegated to doing heavy lifting for hobbits. Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas are in much the same position, the latter two snugged up in a corner together, shaking their heads between sucking down Shire berrywine, an insidious concoction that Boromir is already determined to have his hobbits obtain for their collective personal use.

“Just because some people don't believe in presents,” Pippin says, cramming a bag of toys into his trunk somehow, “doesn't mean that Shire hospitality is going to change anytime soon.”

Aragorn just chuckles and sits on the lid so that Pippin can fasten it. “We believe in presents, Pippin,” he says, “just not for _every_ occasion.”

Merry sighs, tucking a few more parcels into his trunk. “They'll never understand, Pip,” he says, “it's no good explaining.” He grins at Boromir to take any sting out of that, and Boromir goes down on one knee to kiss him, both of them laughing when Pippin climbs onto Boromir's back to kiss both of them.

"Oi, porter, quit fooling around!" Aragorn calls, and Boromir makes an obscene gesture without looking at him. Aragorn lets out a very unkingly snigger, a sure sign that the berrywine is starting to work. 

They do need to get these massive trunks to the train station in plenty of time, so Boromir pulls away and demands that the others come and do some work for their living. Frodo takes the opportunity to confiscate the half-empty wine jug, with the usual fine hobbit sense of when everybody has had enough. Aragorn has to take his leave of them as soon as they get outside, because the giant eagles engaged to carry Elrond's family mustn't be kept waiting. He vanishes into a cab, and the rest of them form a caravan to the train station, massive hobbit trunks lashed on wherever they can be made to fit.

At least for the first leg of their journey, Boromir, Faramir, and all the hobbits will be taking the same train. Gimli and Legolas have to part at the platform for the Mountain Express, and a dismal thing it is. Legolas actually sings a sad song in front of everybody, but being an elf, he brings it off well. The look on his face when Gimli hands him a small box in return is beautiful.

"Don't open it until the full moon, okay?" Gimli says softly, blushing through his beard.

"Of course," Legolas says, and kisses his forehead. It looks a bit cold to Boromir, but apparently doing that kind of thing in public is a huge concession from an elf, and he's glad to see it. He's also glad to have both of his hobbits still holding his hands. They let him go so he can wave to Gimli with the others, and he claps Legolas on the shoulder when he comes back.

"It's only a week in that long lifespan of yours, cheer up," he says, and Legolas laughs.

"Maybe so," he says, and leads the way to their platform. 

They'll lose Legolas first, since like most elven strongholds, Greenwood demands a certain amount of distance from the main line, taking quieter transport from a near-enough station. They let him have the window seat, and Frodo buys him a lovely salad, full of out-of-season hydroponic greens, the kind of thing his father apparently can give four-hour lectures on. Legolas devours it defiantly, and Frodo just gives him a sad smile.

After just an hour, they help Legolas carry his light luggage out to a platform standing in the middle of a field, a tiny human town having sprung up around it as such places do. The ostentatious elk-drawn carriage waiting for Legolas would stand out anywhere, but here it's completely ridiculous, and poor Legolas seems to feel it. At least the driver is nice. He makes Boromir a little nervous because he seems so old without actually looking old in any way Boromir's mind is used to processing, but he speaks to them with the genuine grace of a real aristocrat, and has a long conversation with Frodo in Sindarin that makes everyone who can understand it laugh. 

Even Sam giggles at one point, and is able to quietly tell Boromir that apparently old Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Oakenshield had offended Legolas's father years ago, and that he can't understand much, but there seems to be a very good story attached. Merry and Pippin vow to get it out of Bilbo over the break, and Boromir is glad to think of them having a project. It will be a comfort to him as he moves through the stuffy, ancient forms of the Harvest Festival and does his best to keep Faramir from being completely neglected.

Boromir tries not to let gloom overtake him as the train nears the white city, but of course his hobbits sense it. They accost him by the door to the tiny bathroom, and for once it's not to push him back inside and climb him like a tree. No, today they just hug him tightly, and Merry lets him know that he will be welcome at any number of different holes in the Shire if he feels like visiting.

"Seriously," Pippin says, eyes a little damp with sincerity, pressing Boromir's hand between his two tiny ones, "if you or Faramir really get miserable, make some excuse and come to us. We will lie about being ill if we have to."

"Hell," Merry says, "we'll jump through the ice on the millpond and _really_ get ill, if it comes to that."

Boromir chuckles, already crouching to be level with them, pulling them into his arms. "It had better not come to that, but thank you." He gives each of them a kiss, and then sighs, his forehead resting against both of theirs in that way that works so easily with their different sizes, gazing into one of Pippin's bright green eyes, and one of Merry's blue-grey pair. "I should probably go make sure Faramir hasn't lost track of anything," he says, and stands up, taking both of them by the hand and leading the way back to their compartment, where Sam is excitedly explaining some Sindarin poetic form to Faramir. He looks so interested and happy that Boromir hates to think of what's waiting for them at home. If Father starts picking at Faramir about writing verses again, Boromir will take him to the Shire without the slightest hesitation.


	2. Chapter 2

Merry does his best not to be too maudlin when Boromir and Faramir get off at Gondor Station, but Pippin is better. Merry is generally the better liar because Pippin can't keep his story straight, and the better actor to go with it, but Pippin's inability to really hide his feelings comes with that gigantic heart of his. He really wants Boromir to feel better, and that matters more than himself. He enjoins them to both tell him all about the Harvest Festival, promises them some of the Shire's famous candied fruit, and gives Faramir a brotherly peck on the cheek before giving Boromir a proper, sloppy, lover's kiss of farewell. Merry does the same, but much more gloomily, and he watches the white city out of sight as the train pulls away again, a carriage almost as obnoxious as the one that had fetched Legolas waiting for the sons of Denethor.

"It really is miserable already, isn't it?" Pippin says with a sigh, and Merry flops over to rest his head in Pippin's lap and feel sorry for himself. And Pippin. Sometimes it's almost themself, they feel the same things so often.

"Very miserable," he mumbles, and Frodo chuckles.

"And here I thought you two would never see anyone you liked better than each other," he says, and Merry snorts.

"If Sam weren't here, I could explain some of the benefits of hooking up with humans," he says, and Sam claps his hands over his ears, red as a spring strawberry, which just makes Frodo laugh again and ruffle his curls.

"It's all right, Sam, I won't let them corrupt you."

Sam gives Frodo one of his adorable puppydog looks and Merry makes a note to see if Pippin will bet against him on Sam growing into a raging crush on Frodo. "What a filthy mind you have," Pippin says to Frodo, primly. "Boromir is perfect for reaching the top shelf and for moving furniture so we can sweep under it," he says, and Sam snorts.

"I'll believe that last when I see it," he says, and Merry has to smile.

It's a long way to the Shire, and by the time they arrive it's getting dark out and Pippin and Sam are both asleep, wrapped in Merry and Frodo's coats, respectively. Fortunately, their conveyances await, a small fleet of hobbit carts drawn by the usual Shire ponies, big-eyed and gentle, looking scruffy in their autumn coats. Merry smiles at the sight of them, and of Gaffer Gamgee, who touches his cap in a friendly way before Sam comes shuffling out, redirecting his attention. Sam is already probably strong enough to lift the old fellow off his feet, but is of course too respectful to do so despite his otherwise unrestrained joy at seeing him again. He hugs his grandfather tightly and gently chides him for coming out in the evening chill, when he could've just as easily let Sam come with Merry and Frodo.

Pippin is wide awake again and chattering like a bird to his married sisters, who have claimed the right to meet him since they see less of him than the rest of the family. Frodo of course takes his seniority to heart and goes around making sure that everyone has all their things, before Mr. Oakenshield shows up and knocks a good twenty years off of him. He's more vigorous than Bilbo, since dwarves live so long, and much better suited to coming out on an autumn night. The Baggins family cart is drawn by a dwarven pony, a massive thing by Shire standards. 

Frodo beams at the sight of his guardian and quickly climbs up to the seat to give him a hug and a kiss of greeting, the beads in their hair clicking together for a moment. Frodo pulls back as if he's going to get back to supervising, but seeing that the porters are loading Merry's trunk with his own, he lets Mr. Oakenshield tuck the shaggy furs he uses instead of wool blankets around him. Merry climbs into the back of the cart with his and Frodo's trunks. Mr. Oakenshield makes sure that both of his passengers are comfortable before nodding to everyone else in that royal way of his, and then murmurs to the pony in that hard-edged dwarven talk, turning her head away from the station. 

It's cold enough and late enough even for polite hobbits to just wave to one another and depart. There will be time for visiting tomorrow, and Merry pulls his blankets more tightly around himself. He'd rather do this with Pippin for extra warmth, but they'll surely see each other soon. Making their way up toward Bag End, Frodo tells Mr. Oakenshield all about his time in the city. Mr. Oakenshield is as taciturn as dwarves are generally supposed, but he listens attentively, and when they make their first stop to deliver Merry to his poor fretful mother, he does bother to get down and step in for a cup of tea, and wishes everyone joy of the season before he leaves. 

It's always a bit funny to see Mr. Oakenshield in a smial, since he's such a great, tall thing, and yet doesn't have to actually duck his head to avoid the beams. For Merry, there's always a sense of catastrophe barely averted as Mr. Oakenshield fits himself into the just-sufficient space. They stop at Bag End, of course, because it's on the way to Buckland and Bilbo would be deeply put out if they didn't. Besides, it's only getting colder, and even with the blankets, Merry is glad of the chance for a late tea and some time by the fire.

"There you are!" Bilbo cries, swinging the door open to spill heat and warm yellow light. "Come in, come in, Thorin will see to things. Won't you, darling?" 

Mr. Oakenshield grumbles something that must be an affirmative, because Bilbo turns away laughing to hug Frodo and Merry tightly. He ushers them inside and helps them off with their jackets before leading them to the fireside, where a steaming kettle waits for them, along with sweet and savory biscuits, cold meat, some kind of dwarven-influenced pie, and a bowl of dried fruits. The usual Shire assortment is strawberries, cherries, raisins, and prunes; in this household it always has a special taste because Bilbo adds in these tiny, sour berries that grow up in the Misty Mountains, because Mr. Oakenshield likes them.

Bilbo helps them to plenty of everything, and makes them stay down when Mr. Oakenshield comes bumping and cursing in with Frodo's trunk. Bilbo is definitely getting on, but he seems as vital as ever, zipping around on silver-haired feet to guide his... brother, by Shire convention. Hobbits here and elsewhere generally refer to what humans call gay couples as siblings, blending them into the actual background of unmarried pairs of brothers and sisters that keep house together. Now Mr. Oakenshield manages to get Frodo's trunk crammed into his old room, and to get his boots off before he gives Bilbo a kiss on the cheek and then comes tromping over to get his share of the pie. Bilbo sits down when he does, and asks them all about their day and how they've been getting on in the city and at Greyhame. 

Merry is glad to answer most of his questions, but he's not going to mention the whole situation with Boromir until a time when Mr. Oakenshield isn't there. And when there isn't a pony waiting on them. She's built for cold and is having her own tea while she waits, but they still don't want to keep her long. Everyone agrees about that, so even though it's bad for your health to eat quickly and to not have seconds, Merry and Mr. Oakenshield do just that. At least they have hot tea in Mr. Oakenshield's insulating bottle, and spend the remainder of the drive passing it back and forth as Mr. Oakenshield sings some old ballad about dwarven heroes, Merry coming in on the chorus after the few times around.

They make it to Brandy Hall in time for Merry to have dinner with his parents, who greet him with kisses and Mr. Oakenshield with a pretty package to be opened on Thanksgiving. He thanks them, and politely declines an invitation to stay for dinner. The pony is hitched up, he might as well go. He always looks so odd at times like this, all huge and warlike and bearded, but so at fully embedded into Shire culture. He bows and then vanishes into the autumn night, starting that same ballad again.


	3. Chapter 3

Gimli can't help but be depressed at having to travel alone, but the engrained dwarven smell of the Mountain Express is a great comfort. It's a nice, clean train, of course, but there's that lingering pheromone mist of any place frequented by dwarves, and it's soothing for lonely travelers. Some of Gimli's fellow passengers stare at him, since several of them saw him take his leave of Legolas, but no one is appalled enough to sour the scent of the place. Dwarven food as well as dwarven pheromones makes part of the homey scent, and after months in the city the prospect of a big plate of smoked rat can lift Gimli's spirits even in the face of being parted from Legolas and headed home to do boring Durin's Day rituals and try not to give himself away.

Gimli tells himself again and again not to obviously pine. He won't be able to do anything about his scent, altered a little by feeling the way he does about Legolas, but hopefully he can keep anyone from guessing that an elf is the cause until at least Yule. Hopefully spring. Hopefully the twelfth of never. Mother and Father aren't particularly speciesist, but it was Legolas's father who reduced Father to escaping his custody via empty wine barrel, so there's bound to be some drama. 

Legolas swears he was traveling at the time, and Gimli believes him. Apparently there was some disturbing of the peace, exacerbated by cross-cultural misunderstandings, but nothing worthy of actual jail time. Legolas had concluded that while Thorin's Company hadn't been completely blameless, his father had been an emphatically inconvenient branch protruding into the way. It doesn't really translate, but an analogous Westron phrase is 'being a dick.' Gimli chuckles at the memory of that conversation, and then feels his loneliness more sharply than ever. His food arrives just in time for him to make a game attempt to eat his feelings.

Train food isn't like home, of course, but at least the Mountain Express stocks the proper mineral shakers and has rat on the menu in the first place. The idea horrifies humans, but many of them understand it better when Gimli points out that dwarves eat the huge wood rats, either wild-caught and fed on berries, insects, and any other smaller animal that doesn't get out of the way fast enough, or farmed and fattened on mushrooms and meat scraps. Knowing that they don't live on garbage makes the entire thing more attractive, and people start to remember the various human populations that have eaten dormice, capybaras, and guinea pigs. Boromir still says it's disgusting, of course, but he's very fair about it, because he feels the same way about all the human examples, the poor provincial boy. 

Thinking of Boromir, Gimli hopes that his father will act properly this time. The loss of a wife is a devastating blow indeed, but there is no justification for treating a child like anything less than the treasure it is. Particularly not a child like Faramir, who is dutiful, goodhearted, and artistic, a son any dwarf would be proud of. He may be a little quiet and absent-minded, but no one is perfect and parents shouldn't expect it. Gimli muses on human strangeness as he finishes his rat, which is too sweet and doesn't have enough sauce, but is at least real rat after so long, and a comfort to a lonesome dwarf.

Outside night is falling, and after Gimli has cleaned up and returned his plate, he watches the last of the sunset fade and the first few stars come out. He keeps watching as the sky turns midnight indigo and the moon rises, and he smiles to see how close she is to full. An old song comes to his lips unbidden, and he sings it quietly, because some of the others must be trying to sleep. It's a long song, as dwarven ones tend to be, and not long after the last note, he smiles to see the familiar interruption in the lowest constellations, the Lonely Mountain rearing up against the sky. There's a long way to go yet, but he's far closer to home than to the city.

Gimli could easily stay awake another day or so, but he falls into a light doze just to give himself something to do for the rest of the way. He snaps out of it immediately when the train stops, and quickly gathers his things. His parents and a few uncles are waiting for him on the platform, and of course they all have to hug him and scent-mark him and compliment his braids. It can be exhausting to be a young dwarf, with the birthrate so low that it's not unusual to have eight adults fussing over one child. Still, it's good to see all of them. Oin and Dwalin, who are actually related to him, and Nori, Bofur, and Bombur, who aren't blood kin at all. The bonds between Thorin's Company are about as good as kinship, though, and Gimli is just as glad to take their scent as he is to take his mother's.

"You smell like elf and hobbit," Nori tells him, and Gimli does his best not to blush.

"That's what I get for going to school in the city," he says, and Bombur laughs, patting his shoulder with a scented hand.

"That and a chance to try some of the best food in the world," he says, and Gimli is happy to follow that turn of the conversation as he claims his baggage and everyone helps him to haul it home. 

It's good to be inside the mountain again, and Gimli can feel himself relaxing as he tells Mother all about school and his current projects. The Durin's Day stuff might bore Gimli senseless, but it's good to be home. The house is full of the smell of roasting mutton and pretty much as he left it, though Mother has changed the front windows the way she said she would. They're bowed out now, and very nicely built, with comfortable seats and Father's lovely decorative work. As soon as he and his uncles have the baggage put away, Gimli comes back out to admire the new masonry while Mother checks on the meat and Father draws ale for everyone. It's the usual fine work, and Gimli runs his hands over the stones, learning the new shape of the wall from the inside.

"And what do you think, little one?" Mother asks, emerging from the kitchen.

"Lovely sound work, of course," he says with a smile. "And Father's usual pretty details." Father prefers the traditional geometric patterns, and while sometimes Gimli is utterly sick of the style as a whole, he never gets tired of Father's careful, precise renditions. "You two always do good work."

Mother affectionately brushes her beard across his face, covering him in her sweet, familiar scent. "We certainly did with you, little one," she says, and Gimli beams at her.


	4. Chapter 4

Legolas feels ridiculous in the royal carriage, but it is comfortable, and there's a bit of lembas in the seat pocket, which is nice. He nibbles on it and watches the human settlement go by. Even with Father waiting at the end of the journey to be an intolerant dick, and yes Legolas will use Westron profanity in his own mind. It's more satisfying. Still, it is good to see the Greenwood humans again. The city people move faster and make more noise. Here there's a lot of elven influence, and people take their time and dress in green, which hides them in summer and makes them stand out now, when the leaves are almost entirely golden. Instead of gardeners and farmers, there are hunters here, and gathering cooperatives who step through the forest almost as quietly as their elven counterparts do. 

They owe no real fealty to Legolas's father, but they have that adorable human habit of caring what royalty does, no matter how remote or pointless, and everyone takes an interest as he goes by. Children run along beside the road the way they do for any novel or infrequently-seen conveyance, but some of their mothers curtsey, and several foresters doff their billed, wooden hats. Legolas takes care to wave to everyone, and as always it makes the first stage of the trip pass comfortably.

Even as Legolas gets closer to home, his father, and all the paralyzing and insular convention that entails, he is still delighted to hear his own trees. Every growing thing has its own voice, the chatter of little grasses, the slow, slow singing of lichen, and the bell-like tones of healthy trees. All of the city vegetation is young and tense, even with elven horticulture to help it along, and the calm of the Greenwood always soothes him in ways he didn't even realize he needed. Many full-grown trees seem young to an elf, but here in the heart of the Greenwood the trees are at least as old as Legolas himself, and their voices mean home in a way Father's never has.

Soon the elk are moving into the heart of the Greenwood, where it's all elven houses in the trees. There are far fewer children, and they stand still and look long the way human children hardly ever do, before running alongside the carriage with elfin lightness. Legolas smiles at them, and works to place each one in his mental map of Greenwood society, greeting each one by name. This small group of pretty little elflings are the work of centuries. Outside of the forest, he's always stunned at the plethora of babies, at the way humans and hobbits just make them all the time, like they don't even realize the enormity of the thing. There are no children in the palace now, so the crowd of elflings falls away as the elk pull ahead to close the last of the distance.

The palace is the same as it ever was, built into and around several great trees, all golden and red with autumn. Elves have always celebrated the turning of the leaves whenever they live with trees who turn, but the late emphasis on the Turning Festival comes from its convenient correspondence with harvest festivals and with Durin's Day. It's an excuse for a holiday, and the children particularly have come to depend on it. Legolas would willingly suffer through the whole mess of prayers and having to wear his ridiculous crown and lead the singing for their happiness, but having to do all this and deal with Father always feels like too much for anyone to ask.

Elven servants are very unobtrusive, but it still feels like bustle compared to his solitude in the city to have them all around him, taking his cloak and his bags and ushering him into the throne room. Father is waiting there, looking disapproving and fabulous as ever. Legolas vaguely remembers him being more fun, but it's nearly lost to the mists of time. He greets Legolas formally, and then interrogates him about life in the city, nags him about his friends some more, and then finally welcomes him home and pours him some wine.

"You stink of dwarf," Father adds, wrinkling his nose, and Legolas rolls his eyes.

"It is not a _stink_ , Father." And it's not, even by elven standards. Legolas is aware that his nose is dulled by his time in the city, but not by that much.

"As you like," Father says, and does what hobbits would call 'primming up his mouth.' 

Legolas is prepared to fight with him already, but for the moment Father defers it in favor of asking about Legolas's studies. It's actually a very kind gesture, since this is the arena where they get on the best. Father has a real respect for learning, and can even listen to information from Legolas's Comparative Mythology course without getting too bitchy. He keeps the wine coming and also orders some food. Legolas does not, strictly speaking, need any after the lembas in the carriage, but a meal is pleasant. It also helps to hold down the wine, because Father drinks like a traditional elf, which is to say like a fish. Living in the city where everyone else's liquor is weaker and there are hundreds of soft drink options, Legolas is out of training.

Father may have many, many faults, but being a bad host is not among them unless he's in an exceptionally foul mood and/or you're Thorin's Company. For his own son, he may nag, but he knows that after a long journey a nap and a bath are imperative, and leaves Legolas to it.

One of the little consolations of being in Greenwood again is proper elven bathing apparatus. His apartment only has a shower, because there isn't room for a real bath. One of the little plastic ones the humans tolerate, perhaps, but those abominations don't count. Some of the other races of elves prefer porcelain over metal, but for Greenwood elves, the best material has always been wood, trained and carved into great, smooth bowls and then set over a metal tank of fire outdoors. There's a little house built next to it, where Legolas can scrub his skin with oil and salt, and pin his hair up so he won't have to wait for it to dry later. It really is getting heavy, but he's still too vain to cut it.

Lounging in hot water and watching the slow descent of the autumn sun, Legolas wonders where Gimli is on his route. The Lonely Mountain is far from the city, and his darling dwarf is almost certainly still aboard the train. Dwarves appreciate good bathing facilities, and Gimli would certainly enjoy the temperature of the water, even if forests do make him nervous. Legolas slides one foot along the smooth side of the tub and wonders what Gimli would make of the texture, and if he would put his beard up somehow or let it float on the water like the coppery leaves that are falling in showers.

What Legolas really wants to do is to lounge where he is until the stars come out, but instead he gets out as soon as he's anything like relaxed, and makes his way to his room, where some of the servants are waiting to help him with the elaborate hairstyle and clothing expected of him at official functions.

"All this for some songs, a few prayers, and dinner," he says with a sigh, and the hairdresser chuckles around his mouthful of pins.

"At least you can get away with less for the leaf-viewing, your highness," he says brightly, and Legolas chuckles.

"I guess I can," he says, eyes wandering to the little box Gimli gave him, sitting on his nightstand. He'll be able to open it soon, and that is a much more powerful consolation.


	5. Chapter 5

Even with Father the way he is, home is home, and Boromir and Faramir are both very glad to see Gondor again. The white city gleams in the autumn sunlight, all the banners flying. It's a crisp, cloudless afternoon, and the station guard greets them with a crisp salute. Faramir returns it so well that Boromir desperately wishes Father were here to see it. As it is, they take a cab home, leaving a lavish tip on Father's account, and then take a moment to greet the staff before going to their rooms to put their things away. Boromir wonders if Father will just forget to come home early to greet his sons, and immediately feels guilty for what a relief that would be.

Father does cut his day short, arrive home by half-past three, and after a grave and polite bow, he gathers both of them into a tight hug. He even asks Faramir how his personal Sindarin translation project is going, and listens to the answer. He's trying, at least, and that's all Boromir can really ask for. Dinner is still pretty awkward simply because Father never has as much to say to Faramir. The poor kid is used to it, and seems to really appreciate the effort his completely sub-par father is making. These moments are always hard, because Boromir loves Father. There's no helping it, even if he has been a different and objectively worse man since Mother died, and every urge to shake some sense into him is balanced by one to try and smooth the heavy lines from between his eyes, to let him know that he can rest sometimes.

At least Boromir has gotten Father to admit that with only three people, eating in the kitchen is the sensible thing. There's plenty of room at the big table where the staff take their meals. It's still more than large enough, but it isn't acres and acres of polished, funereal ludicrousness, and no one has to wait, because they can pass dishes to each other like normal people. Widow Deniel always leaves them a good dinner, at least, and it's good to see Faramir calm enough to really load up the way a growing boy should.

After dinner Father vanishes into his study and it's just as well. They need to make their rooms feel like home again, and put their stuff back into the heavy, old-fashioned drawers and shelves. It is good to be back, among all his childhood things and ancient Gondorian furniture, and he's just turning his reversible wall hanging to the other side when there's a knock on the door, small and quiet like Faramir does it.

"Come in!" Boromir calls, and finishes turning the hanging before hopping down from the heavy chest he was standing on to greet his brother.

Faramir hugs him and then clings for a moment. "Boromir, will you go over the Autumnal Address with me?"

The Address is like some kind of civic, secular prayer-thing. It's always hard to explain to anyone who isn't Gondorian, and it's also hard to memorize, despite having been the same for the past five hundred years. Faramir won't even have to do it as long as Boromir is alive, and it makes his heart ache to see his brother trying so hard and so often fruitlessly to please Father. After one decent run-through, where he only has to prompt him four times, Boromir sits Faramir down and reminds him that Father loves them both but that he has serious problems showing it. He's not even sure he's telling the truth anymore, and does his best to be convincing.

"I know," Faramir mutters, hiding behind his hair. "I just... I want him to be different and then I feel bad about that."

Boromir sighs and puts an arm around his brother. "Faramir, that's completely natural. Don't worry about it."

"I guess."

"Look, if you want to work on something, bring your books in here and do that math assignment I know they gave you."

Faramir grimaces, but gets up and scampers to his room to get his things, moving like he feels at least a little better. He comes back with his school supplies, and soon Boromir is helping him over the harder parts of his math. It's one of Boromir's better subjects, and he's glad to be of real use to his brother. Shortly before they have to go to bed, Father steps in to see them for a moment, and when he kisses the top of Faramir's head and tells him that of course he's clever enough to memorize the Address, Boromir can almost believe that everything is going to be fine.

It's always harder to be optimistic on a grey autumn morning, and when Boromir opens his eyes at six o'clock all he wants to do is close them again. He does, but only for a moment. He heaves himself up and out of bed, and throws on a robe, finger-combing his hair out of his face and then going to the door to accept a breakfast tray and an armload of formal clothing. He thanks the servant for both, and then sits down with his egg and toast. Before he's done with it, Faramir has turned up with his own bundle of clothes.

As Boromir helps Faramir into far too many complicated layers, he starts to laugh. Faramir cranes his neck to look back at him, confused. "I was just thinking that we have something in common with Legolas. He was talking about having to wear a ridiculous twig and berry crown and sing a long, boring song."

"So it's him, us, and Eowyn, then," Faramir chirps, and Boromir just smiles, because Faramir can always be trusted to bring Eowyn into things.

Every year, Boromir wonders how the stewards of Gondor have kept this crap going. It's a ludicrous, stiff display of civic pride and wealth and every year Boromir is embarrassed to be a part of it. The only good thing about standing up here in the cold and the damp, dressed like a complete fool is that it works up an appetite for the massive breakfast afterward. He glances over at Faramir and sees his lips barely moving, following Father's. The poor kid really does know most of the Address already, and Boromir loves him so much it's actually an ache around his heart.

At long last they can go in to breakfast, and as the serving dishes go around, Father lets Faramir know that he has noticed his efforts to memorize the Address. He's still a little cold, but he's obviously trying. He even listens to Faramir's description of the poem he's currently working on without a single grumble about it being an inappropriate occupation. He also doesn't say a word about Faramir's childish habit of cutting the crusts off of his toast, and Boromir wonders if maybe this year will be bearable. He straightens his surcoat and spares a fond thought for Legolas, probably trapped in his twiggy crown and stranded about forty-seven verses into the Turning Hymn.


	6. Chapter 6

Thanksgiving in the Shire is always a good time, and even fretting about poor Boromir and his brother can't put too much of a damper on it for Pippin. He rolls out bed in the dark autumn dawn and has the traditional light breakfast with his parents before all three of them get to work, packing up ingredients and things made ahead, all piling into their cart to get to Bag End only a little after sunrise. Bilbo has insisted for years that everyone gather there because he and Thorin have so much space. The smial is already full of various Baggins relatives, married sisters, brothers-in-law, and tiny niblings, and there's no sign of Thorin, who tends to flee to the stable at times like this while Bilbo and Frodo expansively welcomes their guests and manage the kitchen.

The Brandybucks will arrive a bit later, with the standard big box of gifts and their usual pot of bean soup, simmered overnight and enabling everyone to have a hot elevenses and then a bit more for lunch, maybe with a few of the cakes. On Thanksgiving all the meals before the real feasting begins with afternoon tea are kept light, to leave plenty of room. For now, Pippin rolls up his sleeves and helps his sisters corral the children, peel apples and mix cookies and cakes and roll out pie crusts. He also helps to start the various slow-roasting meats, and is just taking a turn basting when the Brandybucks arrive. He's almost as happy to see the bean soup as he is to see Merry. Almost. He hugs him tightly and sits by him while they eat, both of them wondering how the Harvest Festival is going in Gondor.

Poor Boromir is like most young humans and utterly bored by solemn ceremony, to say nothing of how his father might be acting. Looking over to see their own parents so chipper and friendly, a wave of sympathetic misery washes over Pippin. He shakes it off a moment later, since it's no good getting depressed, and then Thorin is coming back in and everyone can tease him about being anti-social and make sure he gets plenty of soup for his late second breakfast. The first one is only technical with him, just a warm drink and roll or something, and it's always a relief to see him eat real food. Afterward, he stays inside to mull wine and to take his turn at basting the meat, with breaks for games of knucklebones with the children. Thorin can be cranky, but he's always very tolerant with little children, as impressed by them as the elves tend to be.

Sam and his gaffer show up just after lunch, having spent the first part of the day in their own little private celebration before walking up with their own gifts and an enormous pie to bake in Bilbo's oven. Frodo is delighted to see his charge, and both Sam and the old man are very popular with the children. Sam is the kind of guy who should absolutely be someone's big brother, and he ends up giving piggy-back rides to the more excitable of the little ones while Gaffer Gamgee shows the quieter ones string tricks, knobbly old fingers still deft.

At last it's time for afternoon tea, which for the children, is probably the best part of the entire holiday besides the break from lessons. They can stuff themselves with sweets and, and gifts are exchanged before anyone can get too bloated to play with them. There are dolls for most of the girls and a few of the boys, wooden swords, tops, brightly-colored knucklebone sets, and wonderful little clockwork things from Thorin. The children go first because they're the most excited, and then it's time for everyone Sam's age and older to give each other books, clothing, and in Sam's and the gaffer's case, art supplies and a few gardening things. No one wants to make a busman's holiday of Thanksgiving for them, but they have personal projects that sometimes require things like the set of delicate glass drippers that Thorin gives to Sam, looking almost angry to be thanked, something Bilbo has assured them again and again is simply embarrassment.

Once everyone has put their gifts in order and thanked everyone, they clear the table and get ready for dinner. The sheer volume of food in a hobbit Thanksgiving dinner has never ceased to amaze Thorin, and he just shakes his head as dish after dish comes out of the kitchen. Along with more food, there's more ceremony to dinner, with Bilbo giving the usual long-winded host's speech. As a truly considerate host, he has the decency to leave off while everything is still steaming, bowing to them and all and then starting the dishes passing from hand to hand. Thorin is always instrumental in this, occasionally flipping an empty plate in the air to amuse the children. Every time, Gaffer Gamgee mutters to himself about inviting disaster, but Thorin hasn't dropped a plate yet.

After everyone has gotten through one generous plate, Bilbo stands up again, calling them to order for another important Thanksgiving observance. Everyone has to say at least one thing they're thankful for this year, and if Merry is also thinking 'Boromir,' he doesn't say it, either. Neither of them lie, Merry is thankful that they're all here and together and Pippin is thankful that they're all well, but they hold hands under the table, sharing one thought as they so often do.

The rest of the evening is convivial gluttony and songs as long as there's anyone not too bloated to sing, and Pippin spends a lot of it lounging by the fire and smoking, the pipeweed helping his digestion. He may be worried about his precious hulking human, but a hobbit too worried to eat is a hobbit about to drop dead from fear. Merry lounges beside him, lazily nibbling on a cookie and letting the children use him as a safe place to leave their playthings, a doll on his belly and a rubber ball and a top resting on his chest.

"Y'think Boromir is doing all right?" he mumbles, and Pippin sighs.

"He sent me a text about being bored, but he didn't seem upset or anything. That was a while ago."

Merry sighs, and then finds a smile for the little cousin coming to claim her ball. "Careful with it, now," he tells her, and she giggles, carefully not bouncing it too high as she scampers away with it.

Soon, everyone loads up to go home for supper, thanking Bilbo again and again for his hospitality. Pippin can't shake that quiet thrum of anxiety, but at least Merry is staying the night, as has been tradition since they were small. Even with him close enough to lean on, there's a hollowness that eating a great deal more than he needs to at supper can't really do much to fill. Afterward, Merry climbs into bed with him and wraps around him from behind, mumbling drunk and bloated reassurances into his hair.

It's impossible not to sleep after eating so much and having plenty of Thorin's mulled wine with it, but Pippin is dreamily thinly of a storm when his phone rings. It's not usually loud enough to wake him, but now it snatches him out of his dream. He scrambles for it, Merry making an unhappy noise in his chest as Pippin leaves his arms.

"Hello?"

"Pippin?" It's Boromir, shouting over wind. Even with the distortion, he sounds like he's barely keeping it together.

"Yes!" Pippin calls, trying not to be too loud but to get through all that noise.

"You said we could stay with you if we needed to!"

"You can," Pippin tells him, and that's when Boromir lets him know that it's so noisy because he's calling from the back of a hired eagle, winging her way over the Shire.


	7. Chapter 7

Merry is dead to the world, but at long last Pippin shaking him and yelling down his ear finally registers, and he snorts and grunts his way awake to hear that apparently everything has in fact gone tits up in Gondor. He should've known, Pippin has a good feel for the people he cares about. Merry hugs him for a while, and then drags his clothes on.

The eagle is due to land at six in the morning, which is good because Pippin's mother and father only have to wake up about half an hour before they usually do in order to dress and eat a few biscuits to make themselves equal to receiving guests. Of course anyone in need and any friends their children can stay here, they tell their son, there's plenty of room with the girls all married out. Pippin hugs them both in his gratitude, and then runs to make sure the biggest of his sisters's rooms is aired and that all the linens are in order. Merry joins him, building the fire because the place needs it and because it's something to do. Pippin seems positively cheerful now, and Merry crouches by the hearth, head cocked as he tries to figure Pippin out, something he usually doesn't have to exert any effort to accomplish.

"I know you're still worried about them," he says at last, and Pippin smiles.

"Yeah, but if they're here we can do something about it. I hope nothing too horrible happened, but I'm glad they're coming here, where we can cosset them."

The bed would be big enough for two hobbit friends to share, but they open a second room and plunder the airing cupboards for fresh linens and enough blankets for them to make nests by the fire if hobbit beds are too small for comfort. Pippin makes sure that a few ornaments that his sisters still care about are well out of the way, and turns down both beds, sure that they'll be tired.

Outside, the cold is trying to turn into the first storm of winter, and Merry is intensely relieved to see the eagle, her feathers ruffled against the wind. She comes swooping in lower and lower, and at last her massive talons flex and grab the earth like prey, bringing her to a stop. She is huge and terrifying and the most beautiful thing Merry has ever seen. On her back is a big lump of dark fur, which is of course both sons of Denethor, wrapped against the wind. Boromir is so stiff he can barely slide down from the eagle's back, but he does, and Faramir must be warmer, because he unstraps their light baggage and comes up with a little pouch of money, carefully showing the eagle each of the big gold coins as quickly as he can. The eagle chirps and dips her head at Boromir, and he bows to her, lurching toward the door as Faramir keeps counting.

Inside, it turns out that Boromir is just barely not frostbitten. They sit him down on the floor in front of the fire because humans on hobbit chairs is usually a bad idea, and Pippin pulls his shirt open and his shoes and socks off while Merry hauls the furs out from under him because they're holding cold air. It isn't nearly enough layers, and Pippin says so, still chiding him when his parents come in with Faramir, who is much better wrapped.

"It's usually clear until later in the year," Mrs. Took frets and Mr. Took agrees, starting some tea and some broth because tea is all very well, but a person needs something most sustaining when they've been half frozen. Merry pokes up the fire and decides not to scold Boromir at all since Pippin is doing such a good job. Instead he helps unwrap Faramir, who looks much warmer and pinker than Boromir, and very worried about him.

"It's all right, we'll thaw him out," Merry says, and then blinks as Faramir holds out a cardboard box.

"We thought we'd bring you something, if we were going to come so suddenly," he says, and Merry just has to hug him.

"We would've understood if you hadn't," Merry says, "but thank you." Pippin's parents echo him, and once Boromir's convulsive shivering has come to a crescendo and started to ease off, Pippin is willing to come away and see the box opened.

"Th-they're j-j-just, just airp-port ch-chocolllates," Boromir chatters, "but we th-th-thought you might lll-like th-them."

Pippin flies back to his side to hug him around the neck and tell him how sweet he is to think of it.

"We had to wait for a while," Faramir says, between sips of broth, "picking it out gave us something to do."

Mr. and Mrs. Took are entirely too polite to press, and by the time Boromir has finished his own cup of broth, Faramir is nodding at the table. Pippin gets up and takes him to his room. "What about you?" Merry asks, and Boromir shrugs.

"I think I got more sleep, but it would be good to lie down."

Mr. and Mrs. Took might be old people who get up early, but Merry does his very best never to be up before at least half-past nine, so it's perfectly expected and acceptable to vanish with Boromir as soon as he's warm enough. He does show him to his room, but after Boromir has looked in Faramir, he's happy to join Merry and Pippin. Just as Merry is wondering where Pippin has been this whole time, they walk in to find a massive blanket nest by the hearth in his room. He's cuddled into the center of it, and beams at them when they come in. Boromir makes a little choking noise, and there's a rushing impression of great size in a small space as he scrambles to join Pippin. Soon he's the one in the middle, and they're tucked under his arms, wrapping themselves onto his sides. He's still a little cold to the touch, and as soon as they can get him to relax his grip they strip him and themselves so they can warm him up directly. He starts to shiver again, and Pippin sighs.

"I... I don't want to talk about it," Boromir says, his voice tight. "Not yet."

"Okay," Pippin says, in that sweet, soothing tone that had been so helpful when Merry had had Mist Fever and there had been spiders all over the walls. He reaches up to stroke Boromir's hair, and Merry does the same. 

Boromir clings to them, pulling them up against his chest and shuddering all over. They can feel his heart pounding, and then easing a bit as they just hold him, pressing kisses to his cheeks and the hollow of his throat as some of the tension starts to leave him. At last he sighs, and rubs their backs. He sounds resigned, and probably ready to talk.

"Ever since Mother died, Father hasn't been right," Boromir says softly. "He got a little help at the time, but he has never committed to it and... well, not last night, earlier this morning, he proved how much he still needs help and then had the gall to argue about it. I wasn't going to make Faramir stay there and be scared out of his wits by his own father, and Stewards of Gondor are perfectly capable of insanity and should fucking have it seen to." He's growling by the end, tense again with anger and hurt, and even though Merry isn't very good at it, he joins Pippin in making soothing noises and petting Boromir's hair, gentling him down again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for terrible family angst and really bad mental health. Oh Denethor, get your shit together, you've got kids.

Part of what makes it so horrible is that Boromir had been lulled into a false sense of security. Father had done so well through all the day's dreary ceremonies, had been so genuinely decent to Faramir that Boromir had gone to bed light of heart and drifted off into the heavy sleep of the well-fed and half-drunk, thinking about his little hobbits and wondering what they would make of Gondor's efforts toward an official harvest dinner. The idea makes him smile, and that's his last thought until Faramir is shaking him awake. Faramir's face is dead white, and his eyes are wide. He's wearing his ratty old white tree t-shirt and plain black pajama bottoms. It makes him look ghostly.

"What's wrong?" Boromir murmurs, sitting up.

"Father," Faramir says, "he's--" and then the door opens, and Father is standing there with that creepy, wide-eyed look he gets. He's actually holding a lit torch, the crazy old fuck, and Boromir is on his feet in a second, getting between them.

"It's time for the funeral pyre," Father says, and it would be less scary if it was a threat, if he didn't just sound sad.

"It is not, we are all very much alive, and you are going to put that torch out, Father."

Father tilts his head in that quizzical way that makes him look so much like Faramir, and then says, "Finduilas?" and Boromir's blood runs cold.

"Father!" he snaps, and a little bit of sense comes back into Father's face. His grip slackens, and Boromir is able to snatch the torch from him. He pushes Father out of the room and slams the door, tossing the torch into the fireplace. He is filled with fury, but he takes deep breaths and starts to pack a few things. Faramir sits on the edge of his bed, staring at him.

"Shouldn't one of us check on Father?" he asks at last, and Boromir snorts.

"That's a job for a professional," he says, "and I'll call Beregond when we leave, he'll know who to get." Unspoken is the whole issue of any Steward being seen in any kind of weakness, and Beregond's sensitivity to their delicate feelings on it. Faramir relaxes a little, but stays with Boromir, not wanting to go back to his room alone in case he runs into Father again.

Within half an hour they have everything they need, and the house is quiet. Boromir has a terrible and complete vision of his father bleeding out in the bathtub or hanging from the rafters, and can't help checking, despite everything he has said. Faramir waits in the entryway as Boromir makes sure that Father is in his room, sitting at his desk and looking dazed.

"Father?"

"Yes?" he says, and it sounds almost normal.

"We're leaving for a while," Boromir says. "You need to get help."

And then Father has the gall to say that he's fine, and Boromir almost hits him. Instead he takes a deep breath, and tells Father that he might as well go back to bed. He climbs into it, still grumbling, and quickly falls asleep, or into some kind of stupor, anyway. Boromir wants to lay a kiss on that corrugated brow, angry as he is, but he doesn't risk it, tiptoeing away and feeling like a bad son, instead. That feeling makes him angry in his turn, because this whole fucking situation is Father's fault, and he has to take a few deep breaths before he can call Beregond. He has been wondering how to discreetly get to the airport, and is so grateful that he has to blink back tears when Beregond says that he'll send a car for them.

There aren't many eagles willing to fly so far on a late autumn day that seems to be trying to turn stormy, but Boromir manages to book their passage with one of the females, who are always in greater demand because they can carry more and tend to be more protective of their passengers. The booking agents are all Númenóreans, since they understand the speech of eagles, and it's kind of comforting to be around a bunch of guys who look so much like Aragorn. It's not just the looks, but the way they speak and carry themselves, and it seems to soothe Faramir, too. They linger without talking much, buy a box of candy for the people they'll be dumping themselves on (if they can even get there, the weather still getting worse,) and then divide up the cold weather gear. Faramir isn't happy about it, but lets Boromir wrap him in everything that's too small to go around both of them.

Their eagle's name is apparently Fire Eye, and her eyes do flash like fire, golden and terrible. She chirps in a friendly way, though, and uses that razor sharp beak to adjust Faramir's hair. He has the sense to stay very still and emerges unscathed. One of the Númenóreans helps them load up, and Faramir tips him since he's holding their money. It makes him nervous, but he'll have warmer hands when they arrive and Boromir doesn't want to worry about holding onto anything less precious than his brother.

The flight is cold and miserable and Boromir can barely get his phone out to call Pippin. It's easier to ask forgiveness than permission, and Aragorn keeps telling him that hobbit offers of hospitality are almost always sincere and that even when they're not, the hobbits in question will usually step up when their bluff is called. By the time Fire Eye lands, Boromir is past worrying, so cold that it should be frightening, but nothing is. He dimly notes the round door, painted a cheerful yellow, and ducks his head to get inside without braining himself. He can just stand up inside, but goes crouched forward to keep himself from knocking into lamps and high shelves. By the fire he gets it together enough to worry about Faramir, just in time for him to come through the door, dragging their bags. It's good to see that he's warm enough, and Boromir feels tearful with gratitude again, as Mr. and Mrs. Took fuss over them without asking any questions.

After Boromir is warmer and has thanked his hosts and checked on his brother, Merry leads him into Pippin's room and Pippin is so little and cute and golden by the fire that it's almost more than Boromir can take. Cuddling with his hobbits is exactly what he needs. They don’t make him talk about it either, and he loves them so much it hurts.

Eventually, of course, Boromir tells them at least some of it. Now that he doesn't have to keep it together for Faramir, he does cry a little, and they both hug him tightly and call him by all their silly pet names for him. His heart still aches for his family, but it's eased with his little ones so close and so sweetly concerned. As the exhaustion starts to catch up with Boromir at last, Merry and Pippin both promise to feed him well on Thanksgiving leftovers, and to show him every part of the Shire worth seeing in the current season.


	9. Chapter 9

Durin's Day isn't actually until a day after the human and hobbit festivals, and Gimli is glad that he can have a quiet day at home before the festivities really get started. He has time to check on his pet projects, see what's new at the forges, and help his family prepare dishes for the feast tomorrow. Today they just eat normal meals, a little lavish and filled with Gimli's favorites because of how glad they are to see him. Each bite of casseroled rat with shaleroot makes him feel loved, and it's wonderful to gorge on the minerals he needs, not having to fuss with shakers or even think about it at all. His parents and uncles load his plate again and again, and gently tease him about his altered scent, wondering aloud if it's a boy with pretty eyes or a sweet little lass with a nice beard. If they only knew, and Gimli isn't sure if he's more embarrassed or amused.

Even with everyone ganging up on him, it's nice to stay up late and not feel alone. Humans need so much sleep! The others can hardly believe how much when Gimli tells them. He complains a bit about how quiet he has to be to at the Beddowes house, but makes sure to mention how fond he is of them before anyone gets the wrong idea.

Gimli's family is also pleased to hear that Thorin, Bilbo, and Frodo are all keeping well. Naturally, any mention of Thorin or his Shire family prompts band stories, and a few performances. Naturally, by the end of it they've bullied Gimli into standing by the hearth and giving him his best Road To Erebor. At least Father and Uncle Oin have the decency to back him up, drumming on the table. Gimli has sung better, but for being stuffed with food and starting to really get tired, it's not a bad rendition. Of course Mother loves it, and she gives Gimli a silky-bristly kiss on the forehead, surrounding him in her homey scent.

After all the dishes are cleaned up and everyone has bathed and gotten their hair arranged for the night, Gimli crawls into his sunken bed at last, sighing as he settles into the piled furs and blankets. He can't help thinking of Legolas, wondering how he would fit his long limbs into this round, dwarven nest. He wants that smooth skin pressed against his own and swathed in furs, and he sighs, firmly telling himself that he needs to get some sleep. He may not need as much as a human, but if he goes into the ponderous, solemn Durin's Day observances already tired, he might fall asleep and embarrass the whole family. 

He chuckles to himself, wondering how embarrassed they will or won't be when they inevitably find out about Legolas. Mother will probably be okay with it, and Father follows her lead on a lot of things. Bofur will probably write a song about it and Bombur might just be happy to have a reliable connection for elven foodstuffs. Come to think of it, Frodo might actually hear more grumbling, since Thorin will need some vent for his feelings.

Mother wakes Gimli up in the morning, and she helps him get his beard braided just right, cooing that it's as soft as his grandmother's was. She also loans him her good jade earrings, because they bring out his eyes. In return, he helps her place her hair ornaments and assures her that letting her grey come in was the right decision, that it makes her look distinguished.

Each Durin's Day Gimli has to sit through long Khuzdul prayers, which are beautiful but get wearisome by the end, and help light the ceremonial forge, which is a bit more fun. Over the next few days, everyone will use the forge for a little bit of work, a few strikes on a sword, some soldering. It's bad form to take too much time, but everyone will use this common fire on something precious to them. Gimli tries not to blush, sitting here listening to Khuzdul prayers and thinking about Legolas and hoping that he likes his gift. As they sit there meditating upon the flame, Mother looks sidelong at him and smiles just a little, and now Gimli can feel himself blushing. His scent must be incredibly obvious.

There's a feast of autumn roots afterward, and Gimli's family has the common decency not to tease him about his scent until they get home. It keeps getting stronger because he can't stop missing Legolas. Among dwarves this kind of thing is supposed to serve as a locus for sympathy and it often does, but it also lets family be particularly obnoxious.

It doesn't help that Gimli's phone doesn't get service this deep in the mountain, and between the third and fourth courses he excuses himself from the vast communal table and starts climbing. Everyone raised in the mountain has their own little favorite paths up to the high places, so good for adolescent privacy and tests of nerve. Now he makes his way to a comfortable little cave. If he crawled out to the edge on his belly and looked down, he would see a sheer wall of rock and a net, placed there in case of falls. Instead, he settles into one of the carved seats and wraps a bearskin blanket around his shoulders. There's a basket full of them, since these caves aren't just cold in autumn.

Checking his messages for the first time since arriving, Gimli finds several fond missives from Legolas, a few people wishing him well on Durin's Day, and a reverse timeline of Boromir and Faramir coming to stay with the Tooks. It's a bit confused at first, but after he has it mostly pieced together, he gives Legolas a call. For a mercy, Legolas can actually talk to him. He's supposed to be on a leaf-viewing walk, but is actually lurking in a thicket to have a moment to himself. He's murmuring apologies to the trees for disturbing them as he answers and Gimli smiles. He can just see Legolas in the moonlit Greenwood, all of a piece with the terrifying beauty of the place.

"Good evening," Legolas says, his voice making the words a caress.

Gimli sighs, leaning back against the rock wall. "Always music to me," he murmurs, and Legolas lets out an embarrassed little squeak that Gimli wishes he could bottle. He wants to hear all about Legolas's visit home, but first he asks about Boromir, to make sure that he understands the situation. Legolas heaves a deep sigh and lays it all out for him. Gimli groans, because he knows all about people who won't admit they need mind healing, such as his dear uncle Thorin.

"So I should send some message of support, then?" he asks, and Legolas chuckles sadly.

"I'm sure they would appreciate it," he says.

Gimli pauses for a moment. "You're more traveled than I am, do you think I could pay them some sorrow-gold without offending them?"

"The men of Gondor can be very strange about money," Legolas says, considering it, "but they might take it from you. Graciously conceding to the customs of other cultures. And Boromir needs to save up if he's going to be disinherited."

"I know the Tooks will accept some," Gimli grumbles, "hobbits are sensible."

Legolas laughs. "Dearest," he says, "I wish you were here."

"Being menaced by the trees?" Gimli asks, unable to help a smile at the thought.

"I would protect you," Legolas says, and it's so sincere that Gimli can feel himself blushing again.


End file.
